The Star of the Swamps
by KeltheDreamer
Summary: In the Bog of the Bleaks, the swamp wolf Sparka stands out from the muck, but all she wants to do is hide. It's too dangerous to shine. Morbin and his allies are everywhere, and scratching a living out of the mud is hard. But now she's been spotted, and now she'll have to glow her very brightest to survive.
1. Hiding

A thunderclap rolled over the tops of the trees, and the water around Sparka quaked a bit. But it was always raining or about to rain in the Bog of the Bleaks, and so she paid it no mind.

She didn't blink, didn't move, keeping her eyes on her prey. If she got it, there would be food for another day. If she missed it, she would have go slogging through the mud again, looking for a bullfrog or a squirrel, and who knew when she would find one of those? She would not miss.

She lifted the blowpipe halfway to her mouth.

The lizard raised its head and turned towards her.

She froze, even stiller than she was before. _I am mud,_ she thought, _I am mud._

The lizard stared at her, and she panicked. What if the all the mud had washed off her face, and the white star marking on her forehead was glowing like a beacon? She hated the star. Why couldn't she just have been born blotched and motley, like all the rest? Why did she have to have a white signal stamped on her forehead?

The lizard's throat vibrated once, and then it turned back to its nap.

Sparka let out her breath in a soundless stream. One, she counted, two, three, four…

She counted to one hundred without moving. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, she raised the pipe to her mouth. Seeing no sign of movement from the lizard, she took a deep breath and gave a blast of air.

The lizard jumped and squeaked, and flopped over. A brown-feathered dart was pinned through its neck.

Sparka lowered her head and pumped her fist. "Hoi," she whispered, the words squeezing out of her chest.

She emerged from the water, though the water was closer to mud. She pulled the dart from the lizard's body and looked the creature over. A little on the small side, but it would do.

It began to rain.

It was always wet in the Bog, but the rain was different from the usual mist. The downpour started hard and fast, with no polite introduction, punching the leaves of the trees and bouncing to land on the rabbits living in the trees' shadow.

She felt the raindrops hit her forehead, and the clods of mud loosened and fell. Now her star would be on full display, a spark in the darkness of the bog. That was why her mother had called her Sparka- because of the idiot star.

It could be worse, she told herself as she sludged through the swamp. At least she could cover the star with mud.

Through the raindrops, she heard a muffled voice and a rustle in the cattails, and she instinctively dropped. I am mud, I am mud. With any luck, she would become invisible.

The sound was too big to be a squirrel, but too small to be a bog wolf. No swamp rabbit would be dumb enough to make a single noise.

"Well," the voice said as it came nearer, "This is a fine mess you've gotten us into, Twill."

Sparka sunk lower, her nose touching the surface of the water, her ears plastered back. The voice wasn't a bog wolf. It was too smooth and cultured, and, besides, why would a bog wolf speak while hunting? It had a strange accent, the voice.

"Yeah, great idea," the voice went on, and the reeds rustled.

_I am mud I am mud I am mud I am mud._

"You hear one or two wild rumors of rabbits living in the bogs, and boom! Let's go find these rabbits, Twill says, Let's bring them in. Great plan all around. Terrible plan!"

A rabbit emerged, struggling through the waist-deep mud. He dressed oddly. He wore a shirt and trousers, like most rabbits, but these were long and flowing. He wore a cape, and carried a heavy leather belt and a long dagger that dragged in the water. He was a mess.

His clothes must weigh a hundred pounds, Sparka thought, How have the bog wolves not found him yet?

He glanced in Sparka's direction and looked away.

She closed her eyes. Good.

When she opened them again, he was staring into her eyes.

_Oh no. My star. He saw it._

"You," the strange rabbit said, pointing at her.

_Curse the star. Curse the idiot star._


	2. Found

Sparka sprang up. There was no point in hiding now. She drew the dagger from her belt, and brandished it at the strange rabbit.

"Lemme pass," she said, acting tough, "And no one'll get hurt."

The rabbit stumbled back, recovered, and drew his sword. "Not so fast, wolfie," he growled.

"Lemme go," Sparka grunted, holding the dagger with both hands.. This wasn't how she was supposed to use a dagger- a dagger was supposed to dart and stab, bend and twist, ambush someone from behind trees- but this pose looked more intimidating, she thought.

The rabbit's sword flashed, and the blade slammed against the dagger. Sparka knew then that she was doomed. The rabbit's sword gave him a huge reach, almost four times the length of hers.

She fell, and threw one arm back into the mud to catch herself. She sunk up to her elbow.

The sword threw the dagger from her hand, and it sunk into the mud. The rabbit raised his sword, and she twisted to avoid his stab.

"No, please!" she cried, gasping. She knew her begging was for nothing. Morbin's allies knew no mercy.

The rabbit paused. This made Sparka cower even more than before. If he was going to defeat her, she wished that he would have just stabbed her and moved on. But the pause- the pause made her tremble. Death she could face- slavery she could not.

"My mama," she said desperately, "Morbin took all the rest off them- I'm the last one. My mama can't hunt, she got no teeth, please, just let me go, I'm the only one who can feed her, don't take me too." Some swamp water washed into her mouth, and she gagged as she swallowed it.

The rabbit cocked his head but didn't move his sword from its resting place on Sparka's middle. "Morbin," he said, as if thinking it over, "Morbin has taken everyone else? What does that mean?"

She took a deep breath, "You come, you snatch them away for Morbin, and they just don't come back." She gasped as the sword tip bit into her skin. "Please- You've already taken all my littermates, don't take me."

She didn't expect mercy from him. A wolf might understand, but a rabbit never would. A rabbit could eat the things that grew, finding them without any work. But a wolf had to hunt. A rabbit would never understand.

The rabbit stared at her. "You think," he said, "That I'm with Morbin?"

He was taunting her. She raised her chin, then thought better of it and tucked it into her neck.

"Yeah," she said, "All outsiders are."

"Are you-" he prodded her ribs- "With Morbin?"

She took a deep breath and looked up again. "I don't care what you do to me anymore," she said, "I'll kill myself before I bow to Morbin. I'll kill myself before I kill a single creature in his service. I'll kill myself before I lift a single burden for him."

The rabbit's eyes widened. "You're serious?"

"Dead. Serious." She grabbed the blade of the sword, and her eyes blazed as she shoved it away. She leapt up with a snarl, her hands bleeding, a gash across her belly. "I'll never surrender," she said, and bared her teeth.


	3. Wounded

"Wait!" the rabbit said, scrambling away from her snapping jaws. "I'm not with Morbin!"

Sparka didn't hear him. Her claws ripped through the fur and skin of his arm.

"You don't-" the rabbit said, "Understand! I'm fighting against Morbin!"

This Sparka did hear. Her stomach's bleeding had forced her to slow down. She stopped, panting, and laid an arm over her wound.

"I'm not with Morbin," the rabbit said, clutching his arm, "I'm fighting against him. I came here-" he winced, and Sparka saw dark red blood rolling down his fur. "I came here to find rabbits who would join the Cause."

"You lie."

"I swear, I'm not with him! All that you said about hating him- just a moment ago- I'm with you on all of it."

Sparka growled. "Then why did you attack me?"

"I thought… you were with him."

"I'm not, so- you still going to kill me?"

"This was my sword arm," the rabbit said.

A surge of pain hit Sparka, and she bent over, coughing a bit. She felt like hurling.

The rabbit watched her for a moment, and then bit his lip."Are you hurt?"

"No." She stepped away.

The rabbit glanced at his arm. "Well, um…" He cleared his throat. "You won't believe me, but- I kinda feel like I should help you."

Sparka glared at him.

"But," he hesitated, "You are a wolf."

"All I wanted was to get back home to my mama," Sparka said, "What did I do to you?"

The rabbit shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "If you're not with Morbin- and I attacked you- I- uh, well- I trained as a medic once."

"You'll stab me in the belly."

"On my honor, I won't," the rabbit said. "I'm responsible. I have a sense of morals. Of course, you'd just leave me to die, but I have honor. I'll help you. On the condition that you won't snap at me."

"I only hunt small things," Sparka said, gasping. Stars, as bright as the one on her forehead, spun before her eyes.

"Here," the rabbit said. "Relax as much as you can."

Sparka tried, but her eyes kept darting, and her ears kept twitching.

"Could you, uh, move your arm?" the rabbit asked.

Sparka did, exposing her belly.

The rabbit touched the edge of the gash. Sparka winced, and tears sprang to her eyes.

"What's your name, sir?" the rabbit asked, his fingers still prodding and prying. He was trying to keep her mind off the pain.

"I'm a girl," Sparka said.

"What? There are _girl_ wolves?"

She nodded. It hurt too much to talk. She closed her eyes.

"It's not too deep," he said, "But it's bleeding. If I had my things to treat it, which I don't, you'd have a fighting chance." He stood. "I'm sorry."

"My mama," Sparka said hoarsely, "She has herbs and things. Bandages."

"What?"

"She could make you better too," she said, forcing her eyes open. "Your arm- hurt too."

The rabbit put his hand over the gaping slash, frowning. "You're right," he said, "I despise you, duty! Where is your mama?"

"Not far," Sparka said, struggling to rise. "Straight north- den in a big pile of rocks-"

"Enough," the rabbit said, hesitating a moment, then helping her to her feet. "Lead on. I follow."


	4. Doubting

The she-wolf collapsed onto the floor of the cave, barely breathing. Twill's eyes darted around the damp cave and he was glad it wasn't his home.

"Mama," Sparka hissed.

An old wolf Twill had mistaken for a shadow or a rock stood up. "You're hurt."

The young wolf didn't respond.

The old one looked up at Twill. "Did you hurt her?"

Twill showed his arm. "She hurt me, so we're even."

"Did she attack you?" The she-wolf's eyes were alarmingly alive. It wasn't right. Wolves only had wild eyes, only blood-shot, lolling eyes. "If she dies, kill me too."

Twill shoved past the mother wolf. "I'm trying to make sure that she _doesn't _die. Let me through. Have anything I could use to work on the wound?"

"The wound that you gave her?" The wolf pointed to a dark crevice in the cave. "There are wrappings and herbs in there."

Twill tentatively poked a hand into the fissure, and found, to his surprise, a perfectly serviceable medic's kit. The herbs were crushed and dried finely, with obvious skill, and stored in little envelopes of clean fabric pinned shut, the exact way he had done it back when he served in the medic's ranks. He'd be a medic still if it wasn't for this crazy quest to get swamp rabbits to join the Cause. He'd always wanted to fix things. He never thought one of those things would be a wolf.

_If_ he could fix her. He had lied. Her wound was deep. Technically, though, _he_ hadn't made the move to kill. She had driven the sword into her own belly when she leaped up. He had just been holding her down with it, which was a perfectly justifiable and reasonable thing for a rabbit to do when confronted by a wolf. Wasn't it?

The mother wolf removed something from Sparka's shoulder. It was a lizard, its pale throat cruelly punctured and bloody. She tossed the whole carcass into a large pot sitting over the crude fireplace.

Twill scowled. "Brutes."

The old wolf scowled back at him. "We need meat."

"Eating meat is terribly wrong."

The mother wolf turned back to the weakly burning flames. "And yet we cannot live without it." The firelight glowed in the dark pits around her eyes.

Twill said nothing. He turned to the younger wolf and wondered if he should even try to heal her. It 'd be useless. He wiped the dirt out of the wound, and the young wolf winced.

"Did Sparka try to kill you?" the mother wolf asked.

Twill raised his head. "Her name is Sparka?"

"For the star." The wolf leaned over and tapped the mark on the young wolf's forehead, white fur stained with mud and blood.

"Oh." Twill found a needle and some thread. So her name was Sparka. Who knew that wolves had names other than Fang or Rabbitkiller.

"Will she live?" the wolf asked.

"I, uh-" He couldn't lie to a mother. "Probably not."

"You killed her."

"Well, she was-"

"She was a wolf," the old wolf said. "She was a wolf."

Twill turned back to Sparka. Named for her star. Kinda cute, if you thought about it. Naming a pup after the spark they were born with. Pity so many sparks had to be snuffed out in the course of things.

Suddenly his hand trembled, and he accidentally jabbed Sparka with the needle. A spark snuffed out? No, it was a life gone forever, not a candle that could be relit. And it was a mere _pity_? No, it was a devastating tragedy. _A pity that this living soul must die? For what? The Cause?_

He shook his head. That sort of thinking led Garten to his treachery. Twill would not doubt the Cause, because the Cause was true and righteous and all who opposed it were not. And it was as simple as that. He secured the thought of the holy Cause at the front of his mind. Truth did not need to be dissected.

As simple as that.


End file.
